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1920 

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SUN-UP 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


SUN-UP 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


SUN-UP 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

LOLA  RIDGE 


NEW  YORK    B.  W.  HUEBSCH,  INC.    MCMXX 


COPYRIGHT  1920,    BY   B.   W.   H  UEBSCH,    INC., 
PRINTED  IN   U.  S.  A. 


r 


DEDICATION 


(To  my  Mother) 

Let  me  cradle  myself  back 

Into  the  darkness 

Of  the  half  shapes  .  .  . 

Of  the  cauled  beginnings  .  .  .  ^.    /\     ,      \ 

Let  me  stir  the  attar  of  unused  air, 

Elusive  .  .  .  ironically  fragrant 

As  a  dead  queen's  kerchief  .  .  . 

Let  me  blow  the  dust  from  off  you  .  .  . 

Resurrect  your  breath 

Lying  limp  as  a  fan 

In  a  dead  queen's  hand. 


Thanks  is  due  to  The  New  Republic,  Poetry,  a  Maga 
zine  of  Verse,  Play-Boy,  and  Others  for  permission  to 
reprint  some  of  these  poems. 


CONTENTS 

I 
SUN  UP 

PAGE 

SUN-UP l 

II 
MONOLOGUES 

JAGUAR      ......  39 

WILD  DUCK    .......•••••  41 

THE  DREAM 43 

ALTITUDE  .     .     .     ....     •     •     *     •     -     -44 

COMRADES 45 

NOCTURNE 46 

CACTUS  SEED  ...........     •     •  47 

III 

WINDOWS 

TIME-STONE    .     .     .     .     » 51 

TRAIN  WINDOW    ......••••  52 

SCANDAL 53 

ELECTRICITY  .     .     .     .     .     •     •     •     •     •     ;     •  54 

SKYSCRAPERS  .     .     .     .     ...     -.     •     •  •   • .    •  55 

WALL  STREET  AT  NIGHT      .     .     .     ;     •     •     •     •  56 

EAST  RIVER    ....*••     ;     ....  57 


IV 

SECRETS 

PAGE 

INTERIM * 61 

AFTER  STORM 62 

SECRETS    .     .     .     .     .     ./  ; 64 

POTPOURRI 65 

THAW  .                                                                       .  66 


V 
PORTRAITS 

MOTHER 69 

E.  S 70 

H ..........  71 

0.  F.  T 72 

E.  A.  R .     .     ......  73 

VI 

SONS  OF  BELIAL 
SONS  OF  BELIAL  .     ...     .     »     .     .     .     .     .     .77 

VII 
REVEILLE 

IN  HARNESS    .     .     *  :   *  h     .     .     .     .     .  .  .83 

REVEILLE %     .     .     .     .     .  .  .86 

To  ALEXANDER  BERKMAN 88 

EMMA  GOLDMAN  .     .     *  *     ;     .»     .     .     .  .  .90 

AN  OLD  WORKMAN    .     k  k   :  .     h     .     ,     .  .  .91 

To  LARKIN     .     .     *     4  .     .....  .  .92 

WIND  RISING  IN  THE  ALLEYS  .  93 


SUN-UP 

(Shadows  over  a  cradle  .  .  . 

fire-light  craning.  .  .  . 

A  hand 

throws  something  in  the  fire 

and  a  smaller  hand 

runs  into  the  flame  and  out  again, 

singed  and  empty.  .  .  . 

Shadows 

settling  over  a  cradle  .  .  . 

two  hands 

and  a  fire.) 


I 

CELIA 

CHERRY,  cherry, 

glowing  on  the  hearth, 

bright  red  cherry.  .  .  . 

When  you  try  to  pick  up  cherry 

Celia's  shriek 

sticks  in  you  like  a  pin. 


When  God  throws  hailstones 

you  cuddle  in  Celia's  shawl 

and  press  your  feet  on  her  belly 

high  up  like  a  stool. 

When  Celia  makes  umbrella  of  her  hand. 

Rain  falls  through 

big  pink  spokes  of  her  fingers. 

When  wind  blows  Celia's  gown  up  off  her  legs 

she  runs  under  pillars  of  the  bank  — 

great  round  pillars  of  the  bank 

have  on  white  stockings  too. 


Celia  says  my  father 
will  bring  me  a  golden  bowl. 

[3] 


When  1  think  of  my  father 

I  cannot  see  him 

for  the  big  yellow  bowl 

like  the  moon  with  two  handles 

he  carries  in  front  of  him. 


Grandpa,  grandpa  .  .  . 

(Light  all  about  you  .  .  . 

ginger  .  .  .  pouring  out  of  green  jars  .  .  .) 

You  don't  believe  he  has  gone  away  and  left  his  great 

coat  .  .  . 

so  you  pretend  .  .  .  you  see  his  face  up  in  the  ceiling. 
When  you  clap  your  hands  and  cry,  grandpa,  grandpa, 

grandpa, 
Celia  crosses  herself. 


It  isn't  a  dream.  .  .  . 

It  comes  again  and  again.  .  .  . 

You  hear  ivy  crying  on  steeples 

the  flames  haven't  caught  yet 

and  images  screaming 

when  they  see  red  light  on  the  lilies 

on  the  stained  glass  window  of  St.  Joseph. 

The  girl  with  the  black  eyes  holds  you  tight, 

and  you  run  .  .  .  and  run 

past  the  wild,  wild  towers  .  .  . 


[4] 


and  trees  in  the  gardens  tugging  at  their  feet 

and  little  frightened  dolls 

shut  up  in  the  shops 

crying  .  .  .  and  crying  .  .  .  because  no  one  stops  .  .  . 

you  spin  like  a  penny  thrown  out  in  the  street. 

Then  the  man  clutches  her  by  the  hair.  .  .  . 

He  always  clutches  her  by  the  hair.  .  .  . 

His  eyes  stick  out  like  spears. 

You  see  her  pulled-back  face 

and  her  black,  black  eyes 

lit  up  by  the  glare.  .  .  . 

Then  everything  goes  out. 

Please  God,  don't  let  me  dream  any  more 

of  the  girl  with  the  black,  black  eyes. 


Celia's  shadow  rocks  and  rocks  .  .  . 

and  mama's  eyes  stare  out  of  the  pillow 

as  though  she  had  gone  away 

and  the  night  had  come  in  her  place 

as  it  comes  in  empty  rooms  .  .  . 

you  can't  bear  it  — 

the  night  threshing  about 

and  lashing  its  tail  on  its  sides 

as  bold  as  a  wolf  that  isn't  afraid  — 

and  you  scream  at  her  face,  that  is  white  as  a  stone  on  a 

grave 

and  pull  it  around  to  the  light, 
till  the  night  draws  backward  .  .  .  the  night  that  walks 

alone 

[5] 


aird  goes r  Aw  ay  without  end. 
Mama  says,  I  am  cold,  Betty,  and  shivers. 
Celia  tucks  the  quilt  about  her  feet, 
but  I  run  for  my  little  red  cloak 
because  red  is  hot  like  fire. 


I  wish  Celia 

could  see  the  sea  climb  up  on  the  sky 

and  slide  off  again  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Celia  saying 

Pd  beg  the  world  with  you.  .  .  . 

Celia  .  .  .  holding  on  to  the  cab  .  .  . 

hands  wrenched  away  .  .  . 

wind  in  the  masts  .  .  .  like  Celia  crying.  .  .  . 

Celia  never  minded  if  you  slapped  her 

when  the  comb  made  your  hairs  ache, 

but  though  you  rub  your  cheek  against  mama's  hand 

she  has  not  said  darling  since.  .  .  . 

Now  I  will  slap  her  again.  .  .  . 

I  will  bite  her  hand  till  it  bleeds. 


It  is  cool  by  the  port  hole. 
The  wet  rags  of  the  wind 
flap  in  your  face. 


[6] 


II 

THE  ALLEY 

Because  you  are  four  years  old 

the  candle  is  all  dressed  up  in  a  new  frill. 

And  stars  nod  to  you  through  the  hole  in  the  curtain, 

(except  the  big  stiff  planets 

too  fat  to  move  about  much,) 

and  you  curtsey  back  to  the  stars 

when  no  one  is  looking. 

You  feel  sorry  for  the  poor  wooden  chair 

that  knows  it  isn't  nice  to  sit  on, 

and  no  one  is  sad  but  mama. 

You  don't  like  mama  to  be  sad 

when  you  are  four  years  old, 

so  you  pretend 

you  like  the  bitter  gold-pale  tea  — 

you  pretend 

if  you  don't  drink  it  up  pretty  quick 

a  little  gold-fish 

will  think  it  is  a  pond 

and  come  and  get  born  in  it. 


It's  hot  in  our  street 

and  the  breeze  is  a  dirty  little  broom 

[7] 


that  sweeps  dust  into  our  room 
and  bits  of  paper  out  of  the  alley. 
You  are  not  let  to  play 
with  the  children  in  the  alley 
But  you  must  be  very  polite  — 
so  you  pass  them  and  say  good  day 
and  when  they  fling  banana  skins 
you  fling  them  back  again. 


There  is  no  one  to  play  with 

and  the  flies  on  the  window 

buzz  and  buzz  .  .  . 

.  .  .  you  can  pull  out  their  legs 

and  stick  pins  in  their  bodies 

but  still  they  buzz  .  .  . 

and  mama  says: 

When  Nero  was  a  little  boy 

he  caught  flies  on  his  mama's  window 

and  pulled  out  their  legs 

and  stuck  pins  in  their  bodies 

and  nobody  loved  him. 

Buzz,  blue-bellied  flies  — 

buzz,  nasty  black  wheel 

of  mama's  machine  — 

you  are  the  biggest  fly  of  all  — 

you  have  the  loudest  buzz. 

I  hear  you  at  dawn  before  the  locusts. 

[8] 


But  I  like  the  picture  of  the  Flood 
and  the  little  babies  getting  drowned, 
If  I  were  there  I  would  save  them, 
but  as  I  can't  save  them 
I  like  to  watch  them 
getting  drowned. 


When  mama  buys  of  Ling  Ho, 

he  smiles  very  wide 

and  picks  her  the  largest  loquots. 

The  greens-man  gave  her  a  cabbage 

and  she  held  it  against  her  black  bodice 

and  said  what  a  beautiful  green  it  was 

and  put  it  on  the  table 

as  though  it  had  been  a  flower. 

But  next  day  we  boiled  and  ate  it  with  salt. 

It  was  our  dinner. 


Christmas  day 

I  found  Janie  on  my  pillow. 
Janie  is  made  of  rubber. 
Her  red  and  blue  jacket  won't  come  off. 
Christmas  dinner  was  green  and  white 
chicken  and  lettuce  and  peas 
and  drops  of  oil  on  the  salad 
smiley  and  full  of  light 
like  the  gold  on  the  lady's  teeth. 

[9] 


But  mama  said  politely 

Thank  you,  we  are  dining  out. 

She  wouldn't  let  you  take  one  pea 

to  put  in  the  hole  where  the  whistle  was 

at  the  back  of  Janie's  head, 

so  Janie  should  have  some  dinner 

So  you  went  to  the  park  with  biscuits 

and  black  tea  in  a  bottle. 


You  feel  very  sad 

when  you  climb  on  the  fence 

to  watch  mama  out  of  sight. 

The  women  in  the  alley 

poke  their  heads  out  of  doorways 

and  watch  her  too. 

You  know  her  . 

by  the  way  she  holds  her  shoulders 

till  she  is  only  a  speck 

in  a  chain  of  specks  — 

till  she  is  swallowed  up. 

But  suppose 

that  day  after  day 

you  were  to  watch  for  her  face 

and  it  didn't  come  back? 

Suppose 

it  were  to  drop  out  of  the  string  of  white  faces 

like  the  pearl  out  of  my  chain 

I  never  found  again? 

[10] 


Mabel  minds  you  while  mama  is  out, 
she  washes  while  she  sings 
Three  blind  mice! 

they  all  run  away  from  the  farmer's  wife 
who  cut  off  their  tails 
with  a  carving  knife  — 
Wind  blows  out  Mabel's  sheets, 
way  you  blow  in  a  bag  before  you  burst  it. 
Wind  has  a  soapy  smell. 
It's  heavier'n  sun 

that  lies  all  over  you  without  any  weight 
and  makes  you  feel  happy 
and  crinkly  like  bubbling  water. 
There's  no  sun  on  the  empty  house  — 
sly-looking  house  — 
you  can't  see  in  its  windows 
that  watch  you  out  of  their  corners. 
Perhaps  there's  a  big  spider  there 
spinning  gray  threads  over  the  windows 
till  they  look  like  dead  people's  faces.  .  .  . 
Jimmie  says: 

Jimmie's  hair  is  white  as  a  white  mouse. 
His  lashes  are  gold  as  mama's  wedding  ring 
and  his  mouth  feels  cool  and  smooth 
like  a  flower  wet  with  rain. 

You  wouldn't  believe  Jimmie  was  different  .  .  .  till  he 
showed  you.  .  .  . 

•      • 

Blind  wet  sheets 


flapping  on  the  lines  .  .  . 

sun  in  your  eyes, 

dark  gold  sun 

full  of  little  black  spots, 

you  have  to  blink  and  blink  .  .  . 

round  eyes  of  Jimmie.  .  .  . 

Jimmie's  blue  jumper  .  .  . 

blue  shadow  of  wall  .  .  . 

all  the  world  holding  still 

as  when  a  clock  stops  .  .  . 

streets  still  .  .  .  people  still  .  .  . 

no  streets  ...  no  people  .  .  . 

only  sky  and  wall  .  .  . 

sun  glaring  bright  as  God 

down  at  you  and  Jimmie  .  .  . 

shadow  like  a  purple  cloth 

trailing  off  the  wall  .  .  . 

Wild  wet  sheets 

flapping  in  the  wind  .  .  . 

big  slippered  feet  flapping  too  .  .  . 

big-balloon-face 

rushing  up  the  alley  .  .  . 

houses  closing  up  again  .  .  . 

windows  looking  round  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Mabel  pulls  you  in  the  gate  and  shakes  you 

and  tells  you  not  to  tell  your  mama  .  .  . 

And  you  wonder 

if  God  has  spoiled  Jimmie. 


[12] 


Ill 

MAMA 

Mama's  face 

is  smooth  and  pale  as  tea-rose  leaves. 

That  ivory  oval  of  aunt  Gem 

you  sucked  the  miniature  off 

had  black  black  hair  like  mama. 


Pit-it-ty-pat, 

Mama  walks  so  fast, 

street  lamps  jig 

without  bending  a  leg  ... 

lights  in  the  windows 

play  twinkling  tunes 

on  crimson  and  blue 

bottles  like  bubbles 

big  as  balloons  .  .  . 

Faster  and  faster  .  .  . 

and  pink  light  spurts 

over  cakes  doing  polkas 

in  little  white  shirts, 

with  cake-princesses 

in  flounced  white  skirts. 

[13] 


Pit-pat  — 

mama  walks  slower  .  .  . 

slower  and  .  .  .  slower.  .  .  . 

Eyes  .  .  .  lamps  .  .  .  stars  .  .  • 

acres  and  acres  of  stars  .  .  . 

bells  .  .  .  and  sleepily 

flapping  feet.  .  .  . 

You're  glad  mama  walks  slow. 

It's  nice  to  be  carried  along 

up  high  near  the  stars 

that  look  at  you  with  a  grave,  great  look. 


Every  night 

mama  sings  you  to  sleep. 

When  she  sings,  0  for  the  light  of  thine  eyes  Dolores, 

there's  a  castle  on  a  cliff 

and  the  sea  roars  like  lions. 

It  leaps  at  the  castle 

and  the  cliff  knocks  it  down 

but  always  the  sea 

shakes  its  flattened  head 

and  gets  up  again. 

The  castle  has  no  roof 

so  the  rain  spins  silvery  webs  in  it, 

and  Dolores'  face 

floats  dim  and  beautiful 

the  way  flowers  do  when  they  are  drowned. 

Step  by  white  step 

she  goes  up  the  castle  stairs, 

[14] 


but  the  stair  goes  up  into  the  sky 
and  the  sky  keeps  going  up  too, 
so  none  of  them  ever  get  there. 

When  mama  sings  Ba  ba  black  sheep, 

the  stars  seem  to  shine  through  her  voice 

so  everything  has  to  be  still, 

and  when  she  has  finished  singing 

her  song  goes  up  off  the  earth, 

higher  and  higher  .  .  . 

till  it  is  only  as  big  as  a  tiny  silver  bird 

with  nothing  but  moonlight  around  it. 


[15] 


IV 

BETTY 

You  can  see  the  sandhills  from  our  new  room. 
Butterflies 

live  in  the  sandhills 
and  lizards 
and  centipedes. 
If  you  keep  very  still 
lizards  will  think  you  a  stone 
and  run  over  your  lap. 
Butterflies'  liveries 
are  scarlet  and  black. 
They  drive  chariots  in  air. 
People  in  the  chariots 
are  pale  as  dew  — 
you  can  see  right  through  them  — 
but  the  chariots 
are  made  of  gold  of  the  sun. 
They  go  up  to  heaven 
and  never  catch  fire. 
There  are  green  centipedes 
and  brown  centipedes 
and  black  centipedes, 
because  green  and  brown  and  black 

[16] 


are  the  colors  in  hell's  flag. 

Centipedes 

have  hundreds  of  feet 

because  it  is  so  far  from  hell 

to  come  up  for  air. 

Centipedes 

do  not  hurry. 

They  are  waiting  for  the  last  day 

when  they  will  creep  over  the  false  prophets 

who  will  have  their  hands  tied. 


Night  calls  to  the  sandhills 
and  gathers  them  under  her. 
she  pushes  away  cities 
because  their  sharp  lights 
hurt  her  soft  breast. 
Even  candles  make  a  sore  place 
when  they  stick  in  the  night. 

There  are  things  in  the  sandhills 

that  no  one  knows  about  .  .  . 

they  come  out  at  dark  when  the  young  snakes  play 

and  tell  each  other  secrets 

in  the  deaf  logs. 

Sometimes  .  .  .  before  rain  .  .  . 
when  the  stars  have  gone  inside  .  .  . 
the  night  comes  close  to  your  window 
and  sniffs  at  the  light.  .  .  . 

[17] 


But  you  must  not  run  away  — 

you  must  keep  your  face  to  the  night 

and  walk  backward. 


When  it  rains 

and  you  are  pulling  off  flies'  legs  .  .  . 

mama  lets  you  play  houses 

with  Lizzie  and  Clara. 

Because  you  are  the  Only  One  — 

and  because  Only  Ones  have  to  live  alone 

while  sisters  stay  together, 

Lizzie  and  Clara 

give  you  the  dry  house 

and  take  the  one  with  the  leaking  roof. 

Rain  like  curly  hairpins 

blows  on  Lizzie  and  Clara's  two  heads 

turned  like  one  head  — 

two  mouths 

spread  into  one  laugh. 

Lizzie  is  saying: 

why  don't  you  want  to  play  — 

when  you  feel  you'd  like  to  braid 

the  crinkled-silver  rain 

into  a  shining  rope 

to    climb    up  ...  and   up  ...  and   up  ...  into   the 

wet  sky 
and  never  see  any  one  again. 

[18] 


Our  gate  doesn't  hang  right. 

It  must  have  pawed  at  the  wind 

and  gotten  a  kick 

as  the  wind  passed  over. 

The  sitting  sky 

puffs  out  a  gray  smoke 

and  the  wind  makes  a  red-striped  sound 

blowing  out  straight, 

but  our  gate  drags  its  foot 

and  whines  to  itself  on  one  hinge. 


What  do  you  think  I've  found  — 

two  wee  knockers  of  fairy  brass, 

or  two  gold  sovereigns  folded  up 

in  a  bit  of  green  silk, 

or  two  gold  bugs 

in  little  green  shirts? 

If  you  want  to  know, 

you  must  walk  tip-toe 

so  your  feet  just  whisper  in  the  grass 

you  must  carry  them  careful 

and  very  proud, 

for  their  stems  bleed  drops  of  milk  — 

but  Lizzie  and  Clara  shout  in  glee: 

Pee-a-bed,  pee-a-bed  — 

dandelions ! 

[19] 


'  You  look  in  the  eyes  of  grown-up  people 
to  see  if  they  feel 
the  way  you  feel  .  .  . 
but  they  hide  inside  of  themselves, 
and  so  you  do  not  find  out. 
Grown-up  people  say: 
The  stars  are  bright  to-night, 
but  they  do  not  say 
what  you  are  thinking  about  stars  — 
not  even  mama  says  what  you  are  thinking  about  stars. 
This  makes  you  feel  very  lonely. 


It's  strange  about  stars.  .  .  . 

You  have  to  be  still  when  they  look  at  you. 

They  push  your  song  inside  of  you  with  their  song. 

Their  long  silvery  rays 

sink  into  you  and  do  not  hurt. 

It  is  good  to  feel  them  resting  on  you 

like  great  white  birds  .  .  . 

and  their  shining  whiteness 

doesn't  burn  like  the  sun  — 

it  washes  all   over  you 

and  makes  you  feel  cleaner'n  water. 

'•   • 

My  doll  Janie  has  no  waist 

and  her  body  is  like  a  tub  with  feet  on  it. 

Sometimes  I  beat  her 

[20] 


but  I  always  kiss  her  afterwards. 

When  I  have  kissed  all  the  paint  off  her  body 

I  shall  tie  a  ribbon  about  it 

so  she  shan't  look  shabby. 

But  it  must  be  blue  — 

it  mustn't  be  pink  — 

pink  shows  the  dirt  on  her  face 

that  won't  wash  off. 


I  beat  Janie 

and  beat  her  .  .  . 

but  still  she  smiled  .  .  . 

so  I  scratched  her  between  the  eyes  with  a  pin. 

Now  she  doesn't  love  me  any  more  .  .  . 

she  scowls  .  .  .  and  scowls  .  .  . 

though  I've  begged  her  to  forgive  me 

and  poured  sugar  in  the  hole  at  the  back  of  her  head. 


Mama  says  Janie  is  a  fairy  doll 
and  she  has  forgiven  me  — 
that  she's  gone  to  the  market 
to  buy  me  some  sweets. 
-  Now  she's  at  the  door 
and  a  little  bag  tied  to  her  neck  — 
I  run  to  Janie 
and  kiss  her  all  over.  .  .  . 
Ah  ...  she  is  still  frowning. 

[21] 


I  let  the  sweets  drop  on  the  floor  — 

mama 

has  told  you  a  lie. 


Chinaman 

singing  in  street: 

gleen  ledd-ish-es,  gleen  ledd-ish-es — 

hot  sun 

shining  on  your  face  — 

it  must  be  a  new  day. 

But  why  aren't  you  happy 

if  it's  a  new  day? 

Because  something  has  happened  .  .  . 

something  sad  and  terrible.  .  .  . 

Now  I  remember  .  .  .  it's  Janie. 

Yesterday 

I  took  Janie  out 

and  tied  my  handkerchief  over  her  face 

and  put  sand  in  it 

and  threw  her  into  the  ditch 

down  in  the  black  water 

under  the  dock  leaves  .  .  . 

and  when  mama  asked  me  where  Janie  was 

I  said  I  had  lost  her. 


I'm  glad  it  is  night-time 
so  I'll  be  able  to  go  to  sleep 

[22] 


and  forget  all  about  it.  ... 

But  mama  looks  at  my  tongue 

and  says  she  will  give  me  senna  tea. 

When  you  smell  the  tea 

you  shut  your  eyes  tight 

and  pretend  not  to  hear 

the  soft,  cool  voice  of  mama 

that  goes  over  your  forehead 

like  a  little  wind. 

And  then  you  lie  in  the  dark 

and  stare  .  .  .  and  stare  .  .  . 

till  the  faces  come  .  .  . 

yellow  faces  with  leering  eyes 

drifting  in  a  greeny  mist.  .  .  . 

I  wonder 

if  Janie  sees  faces 

out  there  .  .  .  alone  in  the  dark.  .  .  . 

I  wonder 

if  she  has  got  the  handkerchief  off 

or  if  the  water  has  gone  in  the  hole 

where  the  whistle  was 

at  the  back  of  her  head 

and  drowned  her  .  .  . 

or  if  the  stars 

can  see  her  under  the  dock  leaves? 


It's  smoky-blue  and  still 
over  the  red  road. 

Wind  must  be  lying  down  with  its  tail  under  it 

[23] 


doesn't  even  flick  off  the  flies. 

And  you  can  hear  the  silence 

buzzing  in  the  gum  trees, 

the  way  the  angels  buzzed 

when  they  flew  through  the  cedars  of  Lebanon 

with  thin  gauze  wings 

you  could  see  through. 

Nice  to  hear  the  silence  buzzing  — 

till  it  comes  too  close 

and  booms  in  your  ears 

and  presses  all  over  you 

till  you  scream.  .  .  . 

When  you  scream  at  the  silence 

it  goes  to  jingling  pieces 

like  a  silver  mirror 

broken  into  tiny  bits. 

Perhaps  its  wings  are  made  of  glass  — 

perhaps  it  lives  down  in  a  dark,  dark  cave 

and  only  comes  up 

to  warm  its  wings  in  the  sun.  .  .  . 

It's  cold  in  the  cave  — 

no  matter  how  you  cover  yourself  up. 

Little  girls  sit  there 

dressed  in  white 

and  the  dolls  in  their  arms 

all  have  white  handkerchiefs 

over  their  faces. 

Their  shadows  cannot  play  with  them  .  .  . 

their  shadows  lie  down  at  their  feet  .  .  . 

for  the  little  girls  sit  stiff  as  stones 

with  their  backs  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave 

[24] 


where  a  little  light  falls  off 

the  wings  of  the  silence 

when  it  comes  down  out  of  the  sun. 


Moon  catches  the  flying  fish 

as  they  dive  in  the  bay. 

Flying  fish 

spin  over  and  over 

slippity-silver 

into  the  water. 

Moon  bends  over  jungles 

and  touches  the  foreheads  of  tigers 

as  they  pass  under  openings  made  by  dropped  leaves. 

Tigers  stop  on  the  trail  of  the  deer 

while  the  moon  is  on  their  foreheads  — 

they  let  the  stags  go  by. 

Moon  is  shining  strangely 
on  the  white  palings  of  the  fence. 
Fence  keeps  very  still  .  .  . 
most  times  it  moves  a  little  .  .  . 
everything  moves  a  little 
though  you  mayn't  know  it  ... 
but  now  the  little  fence 
wouldn't  change  places  with  the  great  cross 
that  stands  so  stiff  and  high 
with  its  back  to  the  moon. 
Moon  shining  strangely 
on  the  white  palings  of  the  fence, 

[25] 


I  am  shining  too 

but  my  light  is  shut  inside  of  me 

and  can't  get  out. 


Old  house  with  black  windows  — 

blind  house  begging  moonlight 

to  put  out  the  shadows  — 

why  do  you  want  so  much  light? 

You  creak  when  the  wind  steps  on  you 

you  cough  up  dust 

and  your  beams  ache  — 

you  know  you  will  soon  fall, 

the  moon  just  pities  you! 

Don't  waste  yourself  moon  — 

come  on  my  bed  and  play  with  me. 

Wrap  me  up  in  blue  light, 

you  who  are  cool. 

I  am  too  hot, 

I  am  all  alive 

and  the  shadows  are  outside  of  me. 


There  are  different  kinds  of  shadows. 
The  blind  ones 
are  the  shadows  of  things. 
These  are  the  tame  shadows  — 
they  love  to  play  on  the  wall  with  you 
and  follow  you  about  like  cats  and  dogs. 

[26] 


Sometimes 

they  hiss  at  you  softly 

like  snakes  that  do  not  bite, 

or  swish  like  women's  dresses, 

but  if  you  poke  a  candle  at  them 

they  pull  in  their  heads  and  disappear. 

But  there  is  a  shadow 

that  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  thing  .  .  . 

it  is  a  thing  itself. 

When  you  meet  this  shadow 

you  must  not  look  at  it  too  long  .  .  . 

it  grows  with  your  looking  at  it  ... 

till  you  are  all  alone 

with  nothing  around  you  .  .  . 

nothing  .  .  ,  nothing  .  .  .  nothing  .  .  . 

but  a  shadow 

with  its  eyes  full  of  black  light. 


There's  a  shadow  in  the  corner  of  the  shed, 

crouching,  lying  in  wait  .  .  . 

a  black  coiled  shadow, 

watching  .  .  .  ready  to  strike  .  .  . 

but  I  mustn't  be  afraid  of  it  — 

I  mustn't  be  afraid  of  anything. 

Poor  evil  shadow, 

the  candle  would  chase  it  away 

only  she  can't  get  at  it. 

[27] 


Do  you  think  that  every  one  hates  you, 

shadow  with  your  back  to  the  wall, 

afraid  to  lie  down  and  sleep? 

But  I  don't  hate  you. 

Even  the  moon  means  to  be  kind. 

She  just  treads  on  you 

as  I'd  tread  on  a  worm  that  I  didn't  see. 

Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  shadow. 

See  —  I've  no  light  in  my  hand  — 

nothing  to  save  myself  with  — 

yet  I  walk  right  up  to  you  — 

if  you'll  let  me 

I'll  put  my  arms  around  you 

and  stroke  you  softly. 

Are  you  surprised  I'd  put  my  arms  around  you? 

Is  it  your  black  black  sorrow 

that  nobody  loves  you? 


[28] 


JUDE 

When  you  tell  mama 

you  are  going  to  do  something  great 

she  looks  at  you 

as  though  you  were  a  window 

she  were  trying  to  see  through, 

and  says  she  hopes  you  will  be  good 

instead  of  great. 


When  you  are  five  years  old 
you  spend  the  day  in  the  Gardens. 
The  grass  is  greener  than  cabbages, 
and  orange  lilies 
stand  up  very  straight 
and  will  not  curtsey  to  the  sun 
when  the  wind  tells  them. 
Only  pansies  bow  down  very  low. 
Pansies  make  little  purple  cushions 
for  queen  bees  to  stand  on. 
Bees 

have  brown  silk  hair  on  their  bodies. 

[29] 


If  you  are  careful 

they  will  let  you  stroke  them. 

The  trees  over  the  marble  man 

catch  up  all  the  sunbeams 

so  the  shadows  have  it  their  way  — 

the  shadows  swallow  him  up 

like  a  blue  shark. 

When  you  scoop  a  sunbeam  up  on  your  palm 

and  offer  it  to  the  marble  man, 

he  does  not  notice  .  .  . 

he  looks  into  his  stone  beard. 

.  .  .  When  you  do  something  great 

people  give  you  a  stone  face, 

so  you  do  not  care  any  more 

when  the  sun  throws  gold  on  you 

through  leaf -holes  the  wind  makes 

in  green  bushes.  .  .  . 

This  thought  makes  me  very  sad. 


Jude  has  eyes  like  tobacco 
with  yellow  specks  on  it 
and  his  hair  is  red  as  a  red  orange. 
Jude  and  I 

have  made  a  garden  in  the  field 
that  no  one  knows  about. 
We  creep  in  and  out 
through  a  little  place 
where  the  barbed  wire  is  down. 

[30] 


We  lie  in  the  long  grass 

and  crush  dandelions 

between  our  two  cheeks 

till  their  milk  comes  out  on  our  faces. 

We  hold  each  other  tight 

and  the  wind  tip-toes  all  over  us 

and  pelts  us  with  thistle-down. 


Jude  isn't  afraid  of  shadows  — 

not  even  of  the  ones  that  have  eyes  in  them. 

And  he  can  look  in  the  face  of  the  sun 

without  blinking  at  all. 

Hush!  don't  say  sun  so  loud. 

The  sun  gets  angry  when  you  stare  at  him. 

If  you  peek  in  his  glory-windows 

he  spreads  into  a  great  white  flame 

like  God  out  of  his  Burning  Bush  .  .  . 

till  you  put  your  hands  up  on  your  face 

and  tremble  like  a  drop  of  rain  upon  a  flower 

that  some  one  throws  into  the  fire  .  .  . 

and  then 

the  sun  makes  himself  small, 

the  sun  swings  down  out  of  the  sky  — 

littler 'n  a  star, 

little  as  a  spark 

little  as  a  fierce  red  spider 

on  a  burning  thread  .  .  . 

and  then 

the  light  goes  out  .  .  . 

[31] 


shivers  into  blackened  bits.  .  .  . 

You  hold  on  to  a  wall  that  whirls  around 

and  the  gate  is  a  black  hole. 

You  grope  your  way  in  like  a  toad 

that's  blinded  by  a  stone  .  .  . 

and  mama  puts  on  cold  wet  rags 

that  get  hot  soon.  .  .  . 

Hush !  don't  let's  talk  about  the  sun. 


When  you  pass  by  the  ditch  where  Janie  is 

You  run  very  fast 

and  look  at  the  other  side. 

Jude  says  Janie  did  love  me 

only  she  couldn't  forgive  me, 

and  that  you  can  love  people  very  much 

and  never,  never,  never  forgive  them.  .  .  . 

so  we  poked  a  stick  in  the  bottle-green  water. 

But  only  weeds  came  up 

and  an  old  top  with  the  paint  washed  off. 


Jude  and  I 

wave  to  the  new  moon 
curled  right  up  like  one  gold  hair 
on  the  bald-head  sandhill. 
Mama  peeps  out  the  window  and  smiles. 
She  thinks 

I  am  playing  with  myself  .  .  . 

[32] 


Run,  Jude,  run  with  the  wind  — 

but  hold  my  hand  tight 

or  the  wind, 

looking  for  some  one  to  play  with, 

will  take  me  away  from  you! 

Wind  with  no  one  to  play  with 

cooees  the  orange-trees  — 

stay-at-home  orange  trees, 

have  to  nurse  oranges, 

greeny-gold. 

Wind  shouts  to  the  grass  — 

run-away-grass 

tugs  at  its  roots, 

but  the  earth  holds  tight 

and  the  grass  falls  down 

and  wind  boos  over  it. 

Wind  whistles  the  bees  — 

bees  too  busy 

with  taking  home  stuff  out  of  flowers 

won't  look  back  — 

bees  always  going  somewhere. 

Only  Jucle  and  I  — 

heads  over  shoulders 

watching  all  roads  at  one  time  — 

run  with  the  wind, 

going  to  nowhere. 


Jude  and  I 

were  weeding  our  garden 

[33] 


when  we  heard  his  whip  — 

must  have  been  a  new  whip 

to  cut  off  dandelion-heads  at  one  swing.  .  .  . 

He  was  the  kind  of  boy  you  knew  when  you  had  Celia. 

with  nice  clothes  on  and  curls 

crawling  about  his  collar 

like  little  golden  slugs, 

and  his  man  was  leading  his  horse. 

I  wish  I  hadn't  run  to  meet  him.  .  .  . 

If  you  hadn't  run  to  meet  him 

he  mightn't  have  trod  on  your  garden  and  said: 

Get  out  of  my  field  you  dirty  little  beggar  .  .  . 

he  mightn't  have  struck  you  with  his  whip.  .  .  . 

How  the  daisies  stared.  .  .  . 

I  hate  daisies  — 

stupid  white  faces  — 

skinny  necks 

craning  over  the  grass! 

I  said  It  is  not  your  field, 

and  he  struck  me  again. 

But  he  didn't  make  me  run. 

His  hand 

smelled  of  sweet  soap  .  .  . 

he  couldn't  shake  me  off, 

but  his  man  did.  .  .  . 

Funny  —  how  the  sky  fell  down 

and  turned  over  and  over 

like  a  blue  carpet  rolling  you  up, 

and  the  grass  caught  at  your  face  — 

it  couldn't  have  been  spiteful  — 

it  must  have  been  saving  itself. 

[34] 


Hot  road  .  .  .  silly  wind  playing  with  your  hair. 
The  road  smelled  of  horses. 
I  only  got  up 
when  I  heard  a  dray. 


Mama  has  sung  ba  ba  black  sheep, 

and  put  a  chair  with  a  cloth  on  it 

between  me  and  the  light. 

But  the  clock  keeps  saying: 

Dirty  little  beggar, 

dirty  little  beggar.  .  .  . 

Some  day 

I  will  get  that  boy. 

I  will  pull  off  his  arms  and  legs 

and  put  him  in  a  box 

and  hide  the  box 

under  the  bed.  .  .  . 

I  wonder 

will  he  buzz 

when  I  take  him  out  to  look  at  his  body 

that  will  have  no  arms  to  whip  me? 

Mama  drew  my  cot  to  the  window 
so  I  can  look  at  the  stars. 
I  will  not  look  at  the  stars. 
There  is  a  black  chimney 
throwing  up  sparks 
and  one  tall  flame 
like  gold  hair  in  a  blaze.  .  .  . 

[35] 


I  know  now 

what  I  shall  do.  ... 

I  will  set  fire  to  him 

and  he  will  burn  up  into  a  tall  flame  — 

he  will  scream  into  the  sky 

and  sparks  will  fly  out  of  him  — 

he  will  burn  and  burn  .  .  . 

and  his  blazing  hair 

shall  light  up  the  world. 


Before  he  hit  me  — 
I  knew  he  was  going  to  — 
I  thought  about  Jude.  .  .  . 
I  thought  if  he'd  fight  .  .  . 
but  he  shriveled  all  up  ... 
he  lay  down  like  a  fear. 

Mama  never  knew  about  Jude. 

You  always  wanted  to  tell  her, 

but  somehow  you  never  did. 

You  were  afraid  she'd  smile 

and  say  he  wasn't  real  — 

that  he  was  only  a  little  dream-boy, 

because  the  grass  didn't  fall  down  under  his  feet. 

He  is  fading  now.  .  .  . 

He  is  just  lines  .  .  .  like  a  drawing.  .  .  . 

You  can  see  mama  in  between. 

When  she  moves 

she  rubs  some  of  him  out. 

[36] 


MONOLOGUES 


JAGUAR 

NASAL  intonations  of  light 

and  clicking  tongues  .  .  . 

publicity  of  windows 

stoning  me  with  pent-up  cries  .  .  . 

smells  of  abattoirs  .  .  . 

smells  of  long-dead  meat. 

Some  day-end  — 

while  the  sand  is  yet  cozy  as  a  blanket 
off  the  warm  body  of  a  squaw, 
and  the  jaguars  are  out  to  kill  .  .  . 
with  a  blue-black  night  coming  on 
and  a  painted  cloud 
'stalking  the  first  star  — 
I  shall  go  alone  into  the  Silence  .  .  . 
the  coiled  Silence  .  .  . 
where  a  cry  can  run  only  a  little  way 
and  waver  and  dwindle 
and  be  lost. 

And  there  .  .  . 

where  tiny  antlers  clinch  and  strain 
as  life  grapples  in  a  million  avid  points, 
and  threshing  things 
[39] 


strike  and  die, 

letting  their  hate  live  on 

in  the  spreading  purple  of  a  wound  .  .  . 

I  too 

will  make  covert  of  a  crevice  in  the  night, 

and  turn  and  watch  .  .  . 

nose  at  the  cleft's  edge. 


[40] 


WILD  DUCK 
I 

THAT  was  a  great  night  we  spied  upon 
See-sawing  home, 

Singing  a  hot  sweet  song  to  the  super-stars 
Shuffling  off  behind  the  smoke-haze  .  .  . 
Fog-horns  sentimentalizing  on  the  river  .  .  . 
Lights  dwindling  to  shining  slits 
In  the  wet  asphalt  .  .  . 

Purring    lights  .  .  .  red    and    green    and    golden-whis 
kered  .  .  . 

Digging  daintily  pointed  claws  in  the  soft  mud  .  .  . 
.  .  .  But  you  did  not  know  .  .  . 
As  the  trains  made  golden  augers 
Boring  in  the  darkness  .  .  . 
How  my  heart  kept  racing  out  along  the  rails, 
As  a  spider  runs  along  a  thread 
And  hauls  him  in  again 
To  some  drawing  point  .  .  . 
You  did  not  know 
How  wild  ducks'  wings 
Itch  at  ctawn  .  .  . 

How  at  dawn  the  necks  of  wild  ducks 
Arch  to  the  sun 

[41] 


And  new-mown  air 

Trickles  sweet  in  their  gullets. 


II 


As  water,  cleared  of  the  reflection  of  a  bird 

That  has  lately  flown  across  it, 

Yet  trembles  with  the  beating  of  its  wings, 

So   my  soul  .  .  .  emptied   of  the  known   you  ...  ut 
terly  .  .  . 

Is  yet  vibrant  with  the  cadence  of  the  song 

You  might  have  been.  .  .  . 

'Twas  a  great  night  .  .  . 

With  never  a  waste  look  over  a  shoulder 

Curved  to  the  crook  of  the  wind  .  .  . 

And  a  great  word  we  threw 

For  memory  to  play  knuckles  with  .  .  . 

A  word  the  waters  of  the  world  have  washed, 

Leaving  it  stark  and  without  smell  .  .  . 

A  world  that  rattles  well  in  emptiness: 
Good-by. 


[42] 


THE  DREAM 

I  HAVE  a  dream 

to  fill  the  golden  sheath 

of  a  remembered  day.  .  .  . 

(Air 

heavy  and  massed  and  blue 

as  the  vapor  of  opium  .  .  . 

domes 

fired  in  sulphurous  mist  .  .  . 

sea 

quiescent  as  a  gray  seal  .  .  . 

and  the  emerging  sun 

spurting  up  gold 

over  Sydney,  smoke-pale,  rising  out  of  the  bay.  .  .  .) 

But  the  day  is  an  up-turned  cup 

and  its  sun  a  junk  of  red  iron 

guttering  in  sluggish-green  water  — 

where  shall  I  pour  my  dream? 


[43] 


ALTITUDE 

I  WONDER 

how  it  would  be  here  with  you, 

where  the  wind 

that  has  shaken  off  its  dust  in  low  valleys 

touches  one  cleanly, 

as  with  a  new-washed  hand, 

and  pain 

is  as  the  remote  hunger  of  droning  things, 

and  anger 

but  a  little  silence 

sinking  into  the  great  silence. 


[44] 


COMRADES 

LIFE 

You  have  been  good  to  me.  .  .  . 
You  have  not  made  yourself  too  dear 
to  juggle  with. 


[45] 


NOCTURNE 

INDIGO  bulb  of  darkness 
Punctured  by  needle  lights 
Through  a  fissure  of  brick  canyon 

shutting  out  stars, 
And  a  sliver  of  moon 
Spigoting  two  high  windows 

over  the  West  river.  .  .  . 

Boy,  I  met  to-night, 

Your  eyes  are  two  red-glowing  arcs 

shifting  with  my  vision.  .  .  . 
They  reflect  as  in  a  fading  proof 
The  deadened  eyes  of  a  woman, 
And  your  shed  virginity, 
Light  as  the  withered  pod  of  a  sweet  pea, 
Moist  and  fragrant 
Blows  against  my  soul. 
What  are  you  to  me,  boy, 
That  I,  who  have  passed  so  many  lights, 
Should  carry  your  eyes 
Like  swinging  lanterns? 


[46] 


CACTUS  SEED 

RADIANT  notes 

piercing  my  narrow-chested  room, 

beating  down  through  my  ceiling  — 

smeared  with  unshapen 

belly-prints  of  dreams 

drifted  out  of  old  smokes  — 

trillions  of  icily 

peltering  notes 

out  of  just  one  canary, 

all  grown  to  song 

as  a  plant  to  its  stalk, 

from  too  long  craning  at  a  sky-light 

and  a  square  of  second-hand  blue. 

Silvery-strident  throat  — 

so  assiduously  serenading  my  brain, 

flinching  under 

the  glittering  hail  of  your  notes  — 

were  you  not  safe  behind  .  .  .  rats  know  what  thickness 

of  ...  plastered  wall  .  .  . 
I  might  fathom 
your  golden  delirium 
with  throttle  of  finger  and  thumb 
shutting  valve  of  bright  song. 

[47] 


II 


But  if  ...  away  off  ...  on  a  fork  of  grassed  earth 

socketing  an  inlet  reach  of  blue  water  .  .  . 

if  canaries  (do  they  sing  out  of  cages?) 

flung  such  luminous  notes, 

they  would  sink  in  the  spirit  .  .  . 

lie  germinal  .  .  . 

housed  in  the  soul  as  a  seed  in  the  earth  .  .  . 

to  break  forth  at  spring  with  the  crocuses 

into  young  smiles  on  the  mouth. 
Or  glancing  off  buoyantly, 
radiate  notes  in  one  key 
with  the  sparkle  of  rain-drops 
on  the  petal  of  a  cactus  flower 
focusing  the  just-out  sun. 

Cactus  .  .  .  why  cactus? 

God  .  .  .  God  .  .  . 

somewhere  .  .  .  away  off  ... 

cactus  flowers,  star-yellow 

ray  out  of  spiked  green, 

and  empties  of  sky 

roll  you  over  and  over 

like  a  mother  her  baby  in  long  grass. 

And  only  the  wind  scandal-mongers  with  gum  trees, 

pricking  multiple  leaves 

at  his  amazing  story. 


[48] 


WINDOWS 


TIME-STONE 

HALLO,  Metropolitan  — 

Ubiquitous  windows  staring  all  ways, 

Red  eye  notching  the  darkness. 

No  use  to  ogle  that  slip  of  a  moon. 

This  midnight  the  moon, 

Playing  virgin  after  all  her  encounters, 

Will  break  another  date  with  you. 

You  fuss  an  awful  lot, 

You  flight  of  ledger  books, 

Overrun  with  multiple  ant-black  figures 

Dancing  on  spindle  legs 

An  interminable  can-can. 

But  I'd  rather  .  .  .  like  the  cats  in  the  alley 

count  time 

By  the  silver  whistle  of  a  moonbeam 
Falling  between  my  stoop-shouldered  walls, 
Than  all  your  tally  of  the  sunsets, 
Metropolitan,  ticking  among  stars. 


[51] 


TRAIN  WINDOW 

SMALL  towns 

Crawling  out  of  their  green  shirts  .  .  . 

Tubercular  towns 

Coughing  a  little  in  the  dawn  .  .  . 

And  the  church  .  .  . 

There  is  always  a  church 

With  its  natty  spire 

And  the  vestibule  — 

That's  where  they  whisper: 

Tzz-tzz  .  .  .  tzz-tzz  .  .  .  tzz-tzz  .  .  . 

How  many  codes  for  a  wireless  whisper 

And  corn  flatter  than  it  should  be 

And  those  chits  of  leaves 

Gadding  with  every  wind? 

Small  towns 

From  Connecticut  to  Maine: 

Tzz-tzz  .      .  tzz-tzz  .      .  tzz-tzz.  , 


[52] 


SCANDAL 

AREN'T  there  bigger  things  to  talk  about 

Than  a  window  in  Greenwich  Village 

And  hyacinths  sprouting 

Like  little  puce  poems  out  of  a  sick  soul? 

Some  cosmic  hearsay  — 

As  to  whom  —  it  can't  be  Mars! 

put  the  moon  —  that  way.  .  .  . 
Or  what  winds  do  to  canyons 
Under  the  tall  stars  .  .  . 
Or  even 

How  that  old  roue,  Neptune, 
Cranes  over  his  bald-head  moons 
At  the  twinkling  heel  of  a  sky-scraper. 


[53] 


ELECTRICITY 

OUT  of  fiery  contacts  .  .  . 
Rushing  auras  of  steel 
Touching  and  whirled  apart 
Out  of  the  charged  phallases 
Of  iron  leaping 
Female  and  male, 
Complete,  indivisible,  one, 
Fused  into  light. 


[54] 


SKYSCRAPERS 

SKYSCRAPERS  .  .  .  remote,  unpartisan  .  .  . 
Turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  left 
Your  imperturbable  fronts.  .  .  . 
Austerely  greeting  the  sun 
With  one  chilly  finger  of  stone.  .  .  . 
I  know  your  secrets  .  .  .  better  than  all  the  policemen 
like  fat  blue  mullet  along  the  avenues. 


[55] 


WALL  STREET  AT  NIGHT 

LONG  vast  shapes  .  .  .  cooled  and  flushed  through  with 
darkness.  .  .  . 

Lidless  windows 

Glazed  with  a  flashy  luster 

From  some  little  pert  cafe  chirping  up  like  a  spar 
row. 

And  down  among  iron  guts 

Piled  silver 

Throwing  gray  spatter  of  light  .  .  .  pale  without 
heat  .  .  . 

Like  the  pallor  of  dead  bodies. 


[56] 


EAST  RIVER 

DOUR  river 

Jaded  with  monotony  of  lights 
Diving  off  mast  heads.  .  .  . 

Lights  mad  with  creating  in  a  river  .  .  .  turning  its  sul 
len  back.  .  .  . 
Heave  up,  river  .  .  . 

Vomit  back  into  the  darkness  your  spawn  of  light.  .  .  , 
The  night  will  gut  what  you  give  her. 


[57] 


SECRETS 


INTERIM 

THE  earth  is  motionless 

And  poised  in  space  .  .  . 

A  great  bird  resting  in  its  flight 

Between  the  alleys  of  the  stars. 

It  is  the  wind's  hour  off.  .  .  . 

The  wind  has  nestled  down  among  the  corn. 

The  two  speak  privately  together, 

Awaiting  the  whirr  of  wings. 


[61] 


AFTER  STORM 

WAS  there  a  wind? 

Tap  .  .  .  tap.  .  .  . 

Night  pads  upon  the  snow 

with  moccasined  feet  .  .  . 

and  it  is  still  ...  so  still  .  .  , 

an  eagle's  feather 

might  fall  like  a  stone. 

Could  there  have  been  a  storm  .  .  . 

mad-tossing  golden  mane  on  the  neck  of  the  wind 

tearing  up  the  sky  .  .  . 

loose-flapping  like  a  tent 

about  the  ice-capped  stars? 

Cool,  sheer  and  motionless 

the  frosted  pines 

are  jeweled  with  a  million  flaming  points 

that  fling  their  beauty  up  in  long  white  sheaves 

till  they  catch  hands  with  stars. 

Could  there  have  been  a  wind 

that  haled  them  by  the  hair.  .  .  . 

and  blinding 

blue-forked 

flowers  of  the  lightning 

in  their  leaves? 

[62] 


Tap  ...  tap  ... 

slow-ticking  centuries  .  .  . 

Soft  as  bare  feet  upon  the  snow 

faint  .  .  .  lulling  as  heard  rain 

upon  heaped  leaves.  .  .  . 

Silence 

builds  her  wall 

about  a  dream  impaled. 


[63] 


SECRETS 

SECRETS 

infesting  my  half-sleep  .  .  . 

did  you  enter  my  wound  from  another  wound 

brushing  mine  in  a  crowd  .  .  . 

or  did  I  snare  you  on  my  sharper  edges 

as  a  bird  flying  through  cobwebbed  trees  at  sun-up 

carries  off  spiders  on  its  wings? 

Secrets, 

running  over  my  soul  without  sound, 

only  when  dawn  comes  tip-toeing 

ushered  by  a  suave  wind, 

and  dreams  disintegrate 

like  breath  shapes  in  frosty  air, 

I  shall  overhear  you,  bare-foot, 

scatting  off  into  the  darkness.  .  .  . 

I  shall  know  you,  secrets 

by  the  litter  you  have  left 

and  by  your  bloody  foot-prints. 


[64] 


POTPOURRI 

Do  you  remember 

Honey-melon  moon 

Dripping  thick  sweet  light 

Where  Canal  Street  saunters  off  by  herself 

among  quiet  trees? 
And  the  faint  decayed  patchouli  — 
Fragrance  of  New  Orleans 
Like  a  dead  tube  rose 
Upheld  in  the  warm  air  .  .  . 
Miraculously  whole. 


[65] 


THAW 

BLOW  through  me  wind 

As  you  blow  through  apple  blossoms.  .  .  . 

Scatter  me  in  shining  petals  over  the  passers-by.  .  . 

Joyously  I  reunite  .  .  .  sway  and  gather  to  myself.  .  . 

Sedately  I  walk  by  the  dancing  feet  of  children  — 

Not  knowing  I  too  dance  over  the  cobbled  spring. 

0,  but  they  laugh  back  at  me, 

(Eyes  like  daisies  smiling  wide  open) , 

And  we  both  look  askance  at  the  snowed-in  people 

Thinking  me  one  of  them. 


[66] 


PORTRAITS 


MOTHER 

I 

YOUR  love  was  like  moonlight 
turning  harsh  things  to  beauty, 
so  that  little  wry  souls 
reflecting  each  other  obliquely 
as  in  cracked  mirrors  .  .  . 
beheld  in  your  luminous  spirit 
their  own  reflection, 
transfigured  as  in  a  shining  stream, 
and  loved  you  for  what  they  are  not. 


are  less  an  image  in  my  mind 
than  a  luster 
I  see  you  in  gleams 
pale  as  star-light  on  a  gray  wall  .  .  . 
evanescent  as  the  reflection  of  a  white  swan 
shimmering  in  broken  water. 


[69] 


II 

(To  E.  S.y 

You  inevitable, 

Unwieldy  with  enormous  births, 

Lying  on  your  back,  eyes  open,  sucking  down  stars, 

Or  you  kissing  and  picking  over  fresh  deaths  .  .  . 

Filth  .  .  .  worms  .  .  .  flowers  .  .  . 

Green  and  succulent  pods  .  .  . 

Tremulous  gestation 

Of  dark  water  germinal  with  lilies  .  .  . 

All  in  you  from  the  beginning  .  .  . 

Nothing  buried  or  thrown  away  .  .  . 

Only  the  moon  like  a  white  sheet 

Spread  over  the  dead  you  carry. 


[70] 


Ill 

(To  H.) 

Speeding  gull 

Passing   under  a  cloud 

Caught  on  his  white  back 

You  .  .  .  drop  of  crystal  rain. 

Now  you  gleam  softly  triumphant 

Folding  immensities  of  light. 


[71] 


IV 

(To  0.  F.  T.) 

You  have  always  gotten  up  after  blows 
And  smiled  .  .  .  and  shaken  off  the  dust 
Only  you  could  not  shake  the  darkness 
From  off  the  bruised  brown  of  your  eyes. 


[72] 


(To  E.  A.  R.) 

Centuries  shall  not  deflect 

nor  many  suns 

absorb  your  stream, 

flowing  immune  and  cold 

between  the  banks  of  snow. 

Nor  any  wind 

carry  the  dust  of  cities 

to  your  high  waters 

that  arise  out  of  the  peaks 

and  return  again  into  the  mountain 

and  never  descend. 


[73] 


SONS  OF  BELIAL 


WE  are  old, 

Old  as  song. 

Before  Rome  was 

Or  Gyrene. 

Mad  nights  knew  us 

And  old  men's  wives. 

We  knew  who  spilled  the  sacred  oil 

For  young-gold  harlots  of  the  town. 

We  knew  where  the  peacocks  went 

And  the  white  doe  for  sacrifice. 


II 


We  were  the  sons  of  Belial. 
One  black  night 
Centuries  ago 
We  beat  at  a  door 
In  Gilead.  .  .  . 
We  took  the  Levite's  concubine 
We  plucked  her  hands  from  of!  the  door. 
We  choked  the  cry  into  her  throat 
And  stuck  the  stars  among  her  hair.  .  . 
We  glimpsed  the  madly  swaying  stars 
[77] 


Between  the  rhythms  of  her  hair  .  .  . 

And  all  our  mute  and  separate  strings 

Swelled  in  a  raging  symphony.  .  .  . 

Our  blood  sang  paeans 

All  that  night 

Till  dawn  fell  like  a  wounded  swan 

Upon  the  fields  of  Gilead. 


Ill 

We  are  old.  .  .  . 
Old  as  song.  .  .  . 
We  are  dumb  song. 
(Epics  tingled 
In  our  blood 
When  we  haled  Hypatia 
Over  the  stones 
In  Alexandria.) 

Could  we  loose 

The  wild  rhythms  clinched  in  us. 

March  in  bands  of  troubadours. 

We  would  be  of  gentle  mood. 

When  Christ  healed  us 

Who  were  dumb  — 

When  he  freed  our  shut-in  song- 

We  strewed  green  palms 

At  his  pale  feet  .  .  . 

We  sang  hosannas 

In  Jerusalem. 

[78] 


And  all  our  fumbling  voices  blent 

In  a  brief  white  harmony. 

(But  a  mightier  song 

Was  in  us  pent 

When  we  nailed  Christ 

To  a  four-armed  tree.) 


IV 


We  are  young. 

When  we  rise  up  with  singing  roots, 

(Warm  rains  washing 

Gutters  of  Berlin 

Where  we  stamped  Rosa  .  .  .  Luxemburg 

On  a  night  in  spring.) 

Rhythms  skurry  in  our  blood. 

Little  nimble  rats  of  song 

In  our  feet  run  crazily 

And  all  is  dust  ...  we  trample  ...  on. 


Mad  nights  when  we  make  ritual 
(Feet  running  before  the  sleuth-light 
And  the  smell  of  burnt  flesh 
By  a  flame-ringed  hut 
In  Missouri, 

Sweet  as  on  Rome's  pyre.  .  .  .) 
We  make  ropes  do  rigadoons 
With  copper  feet  that  jig  on  air.  .  . 

[79] 


We  are  the  Mob. 
Old  as  song. 
Tyre  knew  us 
And  Israel. 


[80] 


REVEILLE 


IN  HARNESS 

I 

THE  foreman's  head 

slowly  circling  .  .  . 

White  rims 

under  yellow  disks  of  eyes.  .  .  . 

Gold  hairs 

starting  out  of  a  blond  scowl  .  .  . 

Hovering  .  .  .  disappearing  .  .  .  recurring 

the  foreman's  head. 

Droning  of  power-machines  .  .  . 
droning  of  girl  with  adenoids  .  .  . 
Arms  flapping  with  a  fin-like  motion 
under  sun  burning  down  through  a  sky-light 

like  a  glass  lid. 

Light  skating  on  the  rims  of  wheels  .  .  . 
boring  in  gimlet  points. 
Needles  flickering 
fierce  white  threads  of  light 
fine  as  a  wasp's  sting. 
Light  in  sweat-drops  brighter  than  eyes 
and  calico-pallid  faces 

[83] 


and  bodies  throwing  off  smells  — 
and  the  air  a  bloated  presence 

pressing  on  the  walls 
and  the  silence  a  compressed  scream. 

A  lions  en f  ants  de  la  patrie  — 

Electric  .  .  .  piercing  .  .  .  shrill  as  a  fife 

the  voice  of  a  little  Russian 

breaks  out  of  the  shivered  circle. 

Another  voice  rises  .  .  .  another  and  another 

leaps  like  flame  to  flame. 

And  life  —  surging,  clamorous,  swarming  like  a  rabble 

crazily  fluttering  ragged  petticoats  — 
comes  rushing  back  into  torpid  eyes 
like  suddenly  yielded  gates. 

The  girl  with  adenoids 

rocks  on  her  hams. 

A  torrent  of  song 

strains  at  her  throat, 

gurgles,  rushes,  gouges  her  blocked  pipes. 

Her  feet  beat  a  wild  tattoo  — 

head  flung  back  and  pelvis  lifting 

to  the  white  body  of  the  sun. 

Mates  now,  these  two  — 

goddess  and  god.  .  .  . 

Marchons! 

Only  the  power  machines  drone 
with  metallic  docility 
under  the  flaxen  head  of  the  foreman 
poised  like  an  amazed  gull. 
[84] 


II 


To-day 

little  French  merchant  men 

with  pointed  beards 

and  fat  American  merchant  men 

without  any  beards 

drive  to  a  feast  of  buttered  squabs. 

The  band  .  .  .  accoutered  and  neatly  caparisoned 

plays  the  Marseillaise.  .  .  . 

And  I  think  of  a  wild  stallion  .  .  .  newly  caught 
flanks  yet  taut  and  nostrils  spread 
to  the  smell  of  a  racing  mare, 
hitched  to  a  grocer's  cart. 


[85] 


REVEILLE 

COME  forth,  you  workers! 

Let  the  fires  go  cold  — 

Let  the  iron  spill  out,  out  of  the  troughs  — 

Let  the  iron  run  wild 

Like  a  red  bramble  on  the  floors  — 

Leave  the  mill  and  the  foundry  and  the  mine 

And  the  shrapnel  lying  on  the  wharves  — 

Leave  the  desk  and  the  shuttle  and  the  loom  - 

Come, 

With  your  ashen  lives, 

Your  lives  like  dust  in  your  hands. 

I  call  upon  you,  workers. 

It  is  not  yet  light 

But  I  beat  upon  your  doors. 

You  say  you  await  the  Dawn 

But  I  say  you  are  the  Dawn. 

Come,  in  your  irresistible  unspent  force 

And  make  new  light  upon  the  mountains. 

You  have  turned  deaf  ears  to  others  — 
Me  you  shall  hear. 
Out  of  the  mouths  of  turbines, 
Out  of  the  turgid  throats  of  engines, 
[86] 


Over  the  whistling  steam, 
You  shall  hear  me  shrilly  piping. 
Your  mills  I  shall  enter  like  the  wind, 
And  blow  upon  your  hearts, 
Kindling  the  slow  fire. 

They  think  they  have  tamed  you,  workers  — 

Beaten  you  to  a  tool 

To  scoop  up  hot  honor 

Till  it  be  cool  - 

But  out  of  the  passion  of  the  red  frontiers 

A  great  flower  trembles  and  burns  and  glows 

And  each  of  its  petals  is  a  people. 

Come  forth,  you  workers  — 

Clinging  to  your  stable 

And  your  wisp  of  warm  straw  — 

Let  the  fires  grow  cold, 

Let  the  iron  spill  out  of  the  troughs, 

Let  the  iron  run  wild 

Like  a  red  bramble  on  the  floors.  .  .  . 

As  our  forefathers  stood  on  the  prairies 

So  let  us  stand  in  a  ring, 

Let  us  tear  up  their  prisons  like  grass 

And  beat  them  to  barricades  — 

Let  us  meet  the  fire  of  their  guns 

With  a  greater  fire, 

Till  the  birds  shall  fly  to  the  mountains 

For  one  safe  bough. 

[87] 


TO  ALEXANDER  BERKMAN 

CAN  you  see  me,  Sasha? 

I  can  see  you.  .  .  . 

A  tentacle  of  the  vast  dawn  is  resting  on  your  face 

that  floats  as  though  detached 

in  a  sultry  and  greenish  vapor. 

I  cannot  reach  my  hands  to  you  .  .  . 

would  not  if  I  could, 

though  I  know  how  warmly  yours  would  close  about 

them. 
Why? 

I  do  not  know  .  .  . 
I  have  a  sense  of  shame. 
Your  eyes  hurt  me  .  .  .  mysterious  openings  in  the  gray 

stone  of  your  face 

through  which  your  spirit  streams  out  taut  as  a  flag 
bearing  strange  symbols  to  the  new  dawn. 

If  I  stay  .  .  .  projected,  trembling  against  these  bars  fil 
tering  emaciated  light  .  .  . 

will  your  eyes  .  .  .  that  bore  their  lonely  way  through 
mine  .  .  . 

stop  as  at  a  friendly  gate  .  .  . 

grow  warm  .  .  .  and  luminous? 

[88] 


.  .  .  but  I  cannot  stay  .  .  .  for  the  smell  .  .  . 

I  know  .  .  .  how  the  days  pass  .  .  . 

The  prison  squats 

with  granite  haunches 

on  the  young  spring, 

battened  under  with  its  twisting  green  .  .  . 

and  you  .  .  .  socket  for  every  bolt 

piercing  like  a  driven  nail. 

Eyes  stare  you  through  the  bars  .  .  . 

eyes  blank  as  a  graveled  yard  .  .  . 

and  the  silence  shuffles  heavy  dice  of  feet  in  iron  corri 
dors  .  .  . 

until  the  day  .  .  .  that  has  soiled  herself  in  this  black 
hole 

to  caress  the  pale  mask  of  your  face  .  .  . 

withdraws  the  last  wizened  ray 

to  wash  in  the  infinite 

her  discolored  hands. 

Can  you  hear  me,  Sasha, 

in  your  surrounded  darkness? 


[89] 


EMMA  GOLDMAN 

How  should  they  appraise  you, 
who  walk  up  close  to  you 
as  to  a  mountain, 
each  proclaiming  his  own  eyeful 
against  the  other's  eyeful. 

Only  time 
standing  well  off 
shall  measure  your  circumference 
and  height. 


[90] 


AN  OLD  WORKMAN 

WARPED  .  .  .  gland-dry  .  .  . 

With  spine  askew 

And  body  shrunken  into  half  its  space  . 

Well-used  as  some  cracked  paving-stone 

Bearing  on  his  grimed  and  pitted  front 

A  stamp  ...  as  of  innumerable  feet. 


[91] 


TO  LARKIN 

Is  it  you  I  see  go  by  the  window,  Jim  Larkin  —  you  not 

looking  at  me  nor  any  one, 
And  your  shadow  swaying  from  East  to  West? 
Strange  that  you  should  be  walking  free  —  you  shut  down 

without  light, 
And  your  legs  tied  up  with  a  knot  of  iron. 

One  hundred  million  men  and  women  go  inevitably  about 

their  affairs, 
In  the  somnolent  way 
Of  men  before  a  great  drunkenness.  .  .  . 
They  do  not  see  you  go  by  their  windows,  Jim  Larkin, 
With  your  eyes  bloody  as  the  sunset 
And  your  shadow  gaunt  upon  the  sky  .  .  . 
You,  and  the  like  of  you,  that  life 
Is  crushing  for  their  frantic  wines. 


[92] 


WIND  RISING  IN  THE  ALLEYS 

WIND  rising  in  the  alleys 

My  spirit  lifts  in  you  like  a  banner 

streaming  free  of  hot  walls. 
You  are  full  of  unspent  dreams.  .  .  . 
You  are  laden  with  beginnings.  .  .  . 
There  is  hope  in  you  .  .  .  not  sweet  .  . 

acrid  as  blood  in  the  mouth. 
Come  into  my  tossing  dust 
Scattering  the  peace  of  old  deaths, 
Wind  rising  in  the  alleys, 
Carrying  stuff  of  flame. 


[93] 


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